(BALTIMORE – March 15, 2025) – On March 16, 1985, my favorite girl got her wings. Her name was Lillie Juanita Glover—the woman who gave me life on a Sunday around noon at Provident Hospital in 1965, just seven days before her own birthday on July 4th. I was in my second year of college when she passed. At the time, I had just embarked on what would become a 13-year undergraduate journey at the esteemed Morehouse College—an experience far beyond my financial means. Yet, thanks to her sacrifices, I was blessed to walk the campus of giants for three profound semesters. Her commitment to my education is a debt I honor through academic excellence. This is also why both of my children—Asaan and N’yinde Amaari—have three A’s in their names, serving as a constant reminder to take their education seriously.
Losing her was devastating. At 20 years old, my world turned upside down. I didn’t know up from down and made many self-medicating choices in an attempt to regain my footing. It took time, but counseling and therapy proved invaluable.
You see, I grew up in my family’s funeral home business, where consoling bereaved families was our duty. However, when death strikes home, the question becomes: to whom do you turn? No one is ever truly prepared for that moment—it comes for us all.
In time, I learned to channel that grief into purpose. I began hosting events around March 16th to focus on the positive—just as she would have wanted. One of my most cherished memories is when Charmil Davis from New Jersey encouraged me to organize a Black Wall Street ceremony with the American Cancer Society at Brooklyn Borough Hall. Eric Adams was Borough President at the time. Brooklyn was the first place in New York City my mother took me to visit her sister, my Aunt Gladys, and my favorite cousin from our Puerto Rican side of the family, Cazzie.
Tomorrow marks 40 years since she got her wings. Marvin Sapp’s Never Would Have Made It perfectly encapsulates my journey. Only by the grace of God am I still standing. Early on, I felt lost. But as the preacher says, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”
Three years ago, something miraculous happened. I was listening to a sermon about the man at Bethesda. Coincidentally, it was near the 38th anniversary of my mother’s transition. In the story, the man had been waiting by the pool for 38 years, seeking healing. Around that time, God revealed to me that March 16th is also the day the first Black newspaper was published in 1827.
Journalism is my life. Regular readers of this column know that without a doubt. Print, radio, TV, and digital media have always been my playground. From morning announcements in elementary school to reading aloud in Sunday School, media and public speaking called me early. I appeared on WJZ TV 13’s Bob Turk and the Sunshine Kids and Evening Magazine, and was featured in the daily newspaper before attending Lemmel Junior High. By 15, Charlie Dugger had me on WEAA and WEBB, two Black-owned radio stations.
Learning that March 16th marks the publication of Freedom’s Journal, the first Black newspaper in the U.S., profoundly shifted my perspective on that day. It was a divine reminder that God rewards those who diligently seek Him and a confirmation that my calling has always been clear. Recently, I heard someone say, “Your calling will keep calling until you answer.” I am grateful I did.
Ase’ to Lillie. Ase’ to my father, Doc Glover, who ensured I learned my people’s history. He had me listening to Carl T. Rowan and Paul Harvey as a child, and I was captivated by Bryant Gumbel on The Today Show—especially the day he broadcasted live from Cuba. Ted Koppel was another early influence.
All this to say: answer your calling. Listen to that inner voice. It speaks for a reason.
